


A Light That Never Goes Out

by MrsCaulfield



Series: Collection of stories [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Hand holding and honesty hours, They take a ride in the Bentley, they don't communicate very well but something's happening here finally, very very honest thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24626485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: When Crowley offered Aziraphale to take him anywhere he wanted to go, it should've worked. It worked before, in 1941 over a suitcase full of books and the bombed remains of a church but somehow it isn't working now. He decides to change his strategy.Also known as a study on what may have happened if Aziraphale agreed to stay in Crowley's Bentley after giving him the thermos filled with holy water.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Collection of stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780507
Comments: 11
Kudos: 67





	A Light That Never Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission piece for Rio / @DesertCalico who wanted to see how the holy water scene may have played out, based on the lyrics of "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" by The Smiths.
> 
> So basically just a ton of angst and quite a bit of hope.

**_take me out tonight..._ **

**_driving in your car_ **

**_I never never want to go home_ **

**_because I haven't got one anymore_ **

* * *

_“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”_

_“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”_

Aziraphale has one hand pressed to the door handle when Crowley realizes he’s about to make a split-second decision.

It should have worked, but Aziraphale’s mellowed rejection still singes in his mind. It worked before, once. Back in 1941 among the cindered remains of a bombed down church. The look on the angel’s face, as Crowley handed him back his books, had him reeling for the entirety of the next decade. How stark the contrast time and a thermos of holy water could make. When back then it had been the easiest thing for him to say _“Lift home?”_ and to saunter away with Aziraphale in tow, whereas now he struggles to get him to stay just a few seconds longer.

But perhaps in those two words lies the answer to his predicament.

With one hand on the door handle, Aziraphale glances back just as Crowley says, “Let me just take you home.”

It’s only when the words leave his mouth that it occurs to him how stupid he sounds, and for whatever reason Aziraphale may be leaving him now with a tartan thermos for his only company, Crowley knows the angel has every right to step out that door.

Instead, Aziraphale withdraws his hand.

“Alright.”

Bewildered serpentine eyes blink from behind shaded lenses. Aziraphale settles back in his seat and resolutely faces the windshield, his features inscrutable.

It is only pure muscle memory that allows Crowley to start up the engine. He’s not breathing.

“To the bookshop, then.”

Aziraphale nods. “Thank you.”

Neither of them mention the fact that the bookshop stands a mere three blocks away from their current position—the greatest bout of mercy Crowley has received in an incredibly long time.

The flashing lights of Soho dance atop the murky black night sky. Crowley is certain he’s never seen the sky this black before in all the time he’s been on Earth. Night has always been a vast and ominous blue, the depths of which no human has ever seen, but the very stars that sink into that ocean were ones he’d held in his own hands a long eternity ago.

It must be the lights. The brighter they are, the blacker the void becomes in contrast.

He doesn’t know what the angel is thinking and it’s a constant prodding to his side. It’s all of Crowley’s fears and anxieties manifesting, because he now has the holy water and it was Aziraphale who had given it. And not discreetly, might he add, but enclosed with a pattern that can undoubtedly be traced only to him.

All their interactions thus far, the implications of the Arrangement, and everything else they’d gotten away with, could have been explained, had their respective head offices found out. Those left no _trace_.

If they are to be found _now_ , there’s no certainty they’d be as lucky.

Crowley now carries a piece of Aziraphale with him, and he is determined to protect it.

The angel sits in his usual prim and proper way, hands folded on his lap, and there is fear that anything Crowley says might cause him to recoil—put that hand back on the door handle, and he _knows_ that hand on the door handle will taunt him in his dreams.

Crowley veers the car to the left and the junction on which the bookshop stands comes into view. He sinks into himself, glaring forcefully at another vehicle that cuts in front. His feet slam on the brakes before he could make the turn.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Aziraphale whispers and Crowley struggles to hear his voice, already accustomed to hearing radio silence.

“What d’you mean?” he drawls noncommittally.

Aziraphale sounds uncertain, but the edge in his tone is what gets to him. “This isn’t the way to home.”

Crowley doesn’t question it. The Bentley turns right at the intersection, and a flurry of other lights flood them as a rows and rows of buildings slip by. An emboldened foot presses down on the gas pedal. The road ahead clears out by some miraculous design.

*

The way to home is nowhere, apparently. The bookshop is where Heaven can always find Aziraphale, and Heaven hasn’t been his home for a very long time. _“I work in Soho, I hear things,”_ he’d told Crowley, the word choice most intentional. He works in Soho, but he does not live there. The way to home cannot be found on any map in existence. It is an invisible thread that Aziraphale only knows rather than feels, and even so, he has never felt it so strongly as he does at this moment, sitting inside Crowley’s car.

There are so many things to be said between them, and yet neither of them utters a word. Perhaps it’s better left that way. Words can hang in the air unsaid and the other person could still understand. Hopefully. If only Aziraphale himself could leave a decipherable enough message.

But he is incoherent, and he only stares at the fading lights as they enter a wider road that appears so empty in comparison to where they’d come from. He only hopes he is communicating the soundless message clear enough.

_Be safe._

“You alright, angel?” Crowley finally asks. Aziraphale turns to stare at him and is bowled over by the sight. Contemporary fashion suits him so nicely.

“Do not mind me,” he replies, taking out a shaky anxious grin. “Still not used to these car things. I apologise if I get a little nervous. Just focus on your driving, dear.”

A beat passes in that manner. There’s a shift—a tinge of a little demonic miracle as Crowley takes his hand off the gear shift to clutch Aziraphale’s on his thigh, the Bentley suddenly gaining confidence.

Aziraphale doesn’t move, doesn’t unfurl the fist he’s made even as Crowley’s palm blankets over it.

Sensing his discomfort, Crowley speaks again. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know.”

Soundless messages. They are, in all likelihood, not referring to Crowley’s driving now.

“I can,” says Crowley, cutting himself off, perhaps hoping that his voice will be drowned out. But as Aziraphale already knows, messages need not make a sound.

“You can what, Crowley?”

“I can hold back,” he says quickly, the words hot on his tongue. “If it scares you. Call it a buffer period, if you will.”

Fear seizes Aziraphale’s heart in a throttling grip. “You will go away?”

Crowley’s hand begins to rub small circles over his knuckles, coaxing it open.

“I can take an assignment somewhere. Lots of stuff going on around the world. South America might be a nice change of pace.”

“You don’t have to go away.”

“Don’t I? You have your bookshop. Can’t exactly go gallivanting around like you used to.”

“Why does either of us have to _leave?_ ” His voice breaks, and it is an opening to his very soul.

Crowley pauses to look at him, and when his eyes turn back to the road, he has Aziraphale’s fingers threaded with his.

“Don’t wanna go too fast.” Crowley half-shrugs and it is only mildly successful given that both his hands are well and truly occupied. “I thought you’d want that.”

“Do not tell me about what it is I’m supposed to want.” Too many lights. Aziraphale closes his eyes. All caution thrown to the wind. The still air is filled with soundless messages, as well as a few voiced ones.

“I’m sorry.”

“What I _want_ is to have you near me. You make me feel safe.”

Crowley squeezes his hand. “Then I won’t go.”

They enter into a tunnel, and suddenly the lights are gone.

With nothing else to distract him, Aziraphale is swallowed by the vastness of dark space. All fear is obliterated, and never has he felt safer.

It is in this protected little bubble that he gains the urge to ask Crowley what has been eating at him since 1941.

_Will you do it, if I ask? Whisk me away—off somewhere, off among the stars?_

His mouth had opened to form the words, but then the tunnel comes to a halt, and the lights come flooding back on again.

_Take me anywhere. I don_ _’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care._

*

Crowley hasn’t had a connection with Heaven in a long time and he doesn’t need any. Humans like to romanticise heavenly forces when really, in the entire expanse of the metaphysical void, there is only one of them worth preserving.

And he will die trying to do just that.

“I-I think, my dear, it may be time for us to be heading back,” Aziraphale says, and it flings them back to their reality.

Crowley doesn’t argue. He’s been granted more time than he deserves. Still, for as long as there’s scraps of that surreal moment left for him to cling to, he cannot learn to give it up.

“I’d still know, by the way,” he mumbles, grip tight on the steering wheel. “If-if you’re worried about safety and all. I can be halfway across the world but if anything happens to you, I’ll know and I’ll be there. If you want me to.”

“Crowley…”

“No. No, you don’t have to respond to that. I know it bothers you. You can just choose to ignore it.”

He and Aziraphale may never partake in the days he longs for them to share, but for as long as they are able to share many more days then it would be all worth it.

Heaven and Hell combined can stop this vehicle right now and he would take them down, as long as he is by Aziraphale’s side. Their _own side_.

The familiar blaring lights of Soho begin to flood them again.

So many words unspoken between them, Crowley wonders if they may ever be said at all.

And he knows it’s better off that way. Less pressure to weigh down on Aziraphale. Less incriminating evidence should their friendship be found out. But Crowley is selfish and reckless and he goes _too damn fast_ and so it spills out of him anyway.

“You know I’d do anything for you. For us.”

He says it so nonchalantly, like talking about the weather, that it takes a while for Aziraphale to process the levity of his statement.

“Well, I—”

“You don’t have to respond to that either. I know what you’re gonna say.” The crossroads comes into view again. He has Aziraphale’s hand in a firm grip and the angel isn’t pulling away and it is the sweetest, most _agonising_ mercy ever granted to him.

“I suppose you do,” sighs Aziraphale.

“The less said about it the better.”

The Bentley comes to a stop. Crowley could only stall for so long. They have finally arrived.

Aziraphale makes no move to exit the car.

“Crowley. If you will allow me to speak.”

But he fears what Aziraphale might have to say. He gets the message, doesn’t need to hear it out loud. But he can never deny Aziraphale anything and so he nods.

“Look at me.” Crowley complies and is subjected to dark blue eyes glistening with tears. He leans forward by instinct, eager to do—he doesn’t know what, but he needs to remedy the situation somehow. Aziraphale waves him off with his free hand and says breathlessly, “Thank you for taking me home.”

Oh. Of course. It’s not a difficult task to do, driving the angel home, and if Aziraphale could look at him that way for doing every single other menial task he’d be a happy demon for the rest of his immortal life.

“No problem, angel,” he chokes out. “Anytime.”

“You do know what I mean, don’t you?” Aziraphale sounds so hopeful, and he can never deny him anything. “My message must have gotten across.”

Crowley nods. Whatever it is that Aziraphale means, he’ll have time to think about it later. For now, he is not letting one second of this fleeting moment pass by without etching every detail to memory.

“I do.”

Aziraphale beams, more radiant than any flashing lights and far more beautiful than any star he’s ever held. Aziraphale raises their joint hands, brushes his lips over each of his fingers. Crowley could only stare, transfixed by the sight and overcome by the light that courses through him, a light which tided over to become the most heart wrenching mercy ever bestowed upon him.

He would never deny the angel anything.

Aziraphale releases his hand and it plops back down on the leather-clad seat like it served no other purpose.

Aziraphale places a hand on the door handle and looks back.

“Thank you for taking me home,” he repeats, and it is only then that it occurs to Crowley that everything—the holy water, the initial refusal, and the ride— _everything_ had not been a rejection at all.

It had been a promise.

It’s with that final solemn note that Aziraphale steps out of the vehicle. This time, Crowley is pleased to find that he is at peace with all of it. The car thrums to life under his hands and feet as he drives away, even as he knows that driving away from the bookshop can do nothing to increase the distance between him and Aziraphale.

* * *

_**to die by your side** _

_**is such a heavenly way to die** _


End file.
